Reclamation
by Shrrgnien
Summary: Everything is changing at once. Some things never will. Utter, shameless fluff.


"And...three hours left!"

There are obligatory cheers from around the table at the continuation of the countdown, and those of them with beverages of some sort make a halfhearted toast.

In three hours Padmé Amidala, _ne_ Naberrie, will no longer be Queen of Naboo. She's cleared the last of her obligations as of yesterday, signed everything she needs to sign, and is not expected at the Palace for another week, to ceremonially abdicate before the coronation of...well. They're not really sure, yet. That's what they're waiting for. With the official proceedings taken care of, they've retreated to Varykino to watch the election results.

They're throwing a party to celebrate.

Sabé smiles faintly and deals the next hand. At Padmé's stern insistence, they are playing for cookies only. It's a good thing, really, because Dormé has the worst sabacc face any of them have ever seen, and they don't actually want to bankrupt each other. At this rate Dormé might just starve to death, though.

There's a noticeable shift in the air. The fact that they're all out of uniform, possibly for the first time—certainly Sabé is positive she's never seen Eirtaé in civilian clothing—is a large part of it. This is a farewell, but there's also a sense over them all like a sigh of relief. Around sunset they had all decided that actual clothing was too much trouble; they're all wearing nightgowns and robes borrowed from the estate, to go with the various expensive drinks they are also borrowing but have no intention of giving back.

It's the end of an era. Padmé's had her work cut out for her just trying to convince the people of Naboo not to vote her a dynasty; certainly no one will forget the Queen Amidala any time soon. It's almost a shame. Most of the candidates for the next Monarch are good, even wise options, but they will all be judged by a standard no mere mortal could ever live up to.

Sabé, she can admit, is slightly biased.

Padmé curls up at the end of one comfortable sofa, sorting through her cards. She's...exquisite. Indescribable. There's something _perfect_ about her, something more complete than she's ever been, seeing her in a fluffy dressing gown and the simplest, least-adorned white nightdress Varykino's closets could offer them. Her hair is let down completely and beginning to spring back into its natural curls; no elaborate hairstyles, no longer forced to lie straight to match her decoy's. She is more human, and more like a goddess, than she has ever been.

Sabé glances over and makes a mental note of the Queen's cards—still Queen, technically, if only for a few more hours, but always and forever Queen Amidala to everyone in this room. She would feel more guilty about cheating if they weren't all doing it.

Considering the eight years of training they all went through to school their expressions and body language, they _really_ ought to be less terrible at this game.

"Eirtaé," Padmé says. She makes a face at her hand and shifts one of her cards. The display screen flashes and replaces it with an even worse one. "When _does_ the new Council session open?"

Eirtaé smiles to herself from across the table, primly setting her cards face-down while she pours herself...something bright green that is probably meant to go in a much smaller glass. They're not politicians right now, they can afford some _minor_ overindulgence.

"Two months following the coronation, my lady," she answers, sounding pleased with herself. She has every right to be. Having effectively been absent from politics entirely for eight years, Eirtaé has still calmly stepped into a position as a senior legislator in the Theed City Council. Being associated with Queen Amidala was almost certainly a large part of it, of course, but they're all proud of her anyway. Eirtaé was always meant for politics; it's more than time she be given the chance to have a voice of her own.

With Amidala's tenure coming to an end, her handmaidens have naturally begun their final slow exodus. It's come as a surprise to all of them, really, that Eirtaé has stayed so long. Sabé wouldn't have placed any odds on her remaining past the Queen's first term; she had always been polite, certainly Padmé had been grateful to have her, but it wasn't as if Eirtaé had ever _planned_ to be a handmaiden of all things. They'd all expected her to quietly take her leave and move on.

Sabé is not too proud to admit they had vastly underestimated Eirtaé's loyalty. She's remained, steadfast and unshakeable, until the end. Sabé is certain that if their lady still needed her help, Eirtaé wouldn't leave. But they'll manage without her. They're all learning to stand on their own, now.

Rabé, rather shockingly, had been one of the first of those remaining to part ways, several months earlier. There are always open positions in Naboo's defense forces for the attendants of former Monarchs; good positions with officer training offered, and which many of the handmaidens of Padmé's second term have already accepted. There's also a very good higher education program, to make up for the time lost in service to Naboo; guaranteed acceptance into almost any Naboo university, and scholarships for most of the higher learning institutions of the galaxy. It's this program that's taken Rabé and Saché from them early; they hadn't wanted to miss the start of classes.

Rabé has actually been accepted into a Nabooan intelligence training program. It's highly competitive, invitation-only, barely less secretive than the handmaiden corps. By all accounts, she's doing extremely well. Saché is studying philosophy. To each her own.

The others have similar stories, with some going back home and a few entering into personal protection or security in the private sector or for trustworthy politicians on other planets, with Panaka's blessing; except for Yané, who at some point apparently signed on as a test pilot for racing speeders—not pod racing, she'd assured Padmé hurriedly upon seeing the look of horror on the Queen's face. Nobody had seen _that_ coming; they suspect she just wants to blow off a bit of steam for a few years before settling. She's young. They all are, really.

Moteé and Ellé are on Coruscant, as much for a vacation as to be present during the election; they've earned it. Dormé, Padmé has already invited to stay on. If she's going to step out of politics for a while, she says, she really does need to find her own place sometime; as much as she loves her family she doesn't want to live with them _forever_, and wants Dormé's help in finding and setting up a home. Whatever Cordé's plans are, she's kept them mostly private, with some vague noises about accepting the offer from the defense force if nothing else comes up.

Sabé bites into one of her winnings, eyes sliding over her cards without really registering anything.

Out of all of them, she is the only one with nowhere to go after tonight.

"Sabé." Cordé's voice is hesitant. "Sabé, are you playing this round, or...?"

"We can do something else," Dormé suggests quietly.

Shaking herself, Sabé smirks. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?" She tosses two cookies into the pot and pretends she doesn't notice Padmé looking at her cards as she shifts position.

Eirtaé is watching her from across the table, annoyingly perceptive as usual.

"Sabé," she says casually as Cordé peers between her cards and the pot. Padmé's secondary double is a decent sabacc player, but she always taps her thumb against her cards when she has a good hand. "You've been awfully quiet. What are your plans, when it's over?"

Padmé is suddenly very still, and extremely interested in her cards. Sabé carefully avoids looking at her, and the foot and a half between them on the sofa suddenly feels uncomfortably close.

She clears her throat. "Captain Panaka offered me a position organizing palace security. I haven't given him an answer yet either. An answer yet," she corrects hastily. "I'm... I've been thinking."

Eirtaé raises an eyebrow, but doesn't comment on the slip. "That's high praise," she says instead. "It would suit you."

"I might accept," Sabé says quietly, staring daggers at her hand. Master of Staves. Three of Flasks. And, fittingly, The Idiot.

Padmé's face hardens; Sabé can see that even with the barest glimpse of her in her peripheral vision. The Queen tosses her cards on the table and stands, somehow managing not to knock anything over.

"I fold," she says shortly, turning to leave. Dormé, despite looking faintly relieved as she sets her own cards down as well, reaches out in concern.

"My lady, are you all right—"

"I'm fine," Padmé interrupts. "I need some air."

The silence she leaves behind is so charged Sabé half expects static to jump from her robe if she moves.

Eirtaé, naturally, breaks it.

"What did you do?" she asks flatly, tossing her cards on the table.

Dormé frowns. "Eirtaé," she says, her voice somehow both soft and reproachful. "Leave her be."

Eirtaé shakes her head and very pointedly pours herself another drink.

"How many of those have you had?" asks Dormé with unfeigned concern. Eirtaé peers at the glass and shrugs.

In the kitchen, something dings.

"That's the next batch," Dormé announces, rubbing her hands together with an admirable attempt cheerfulness. She stands, then pauses. "Sabé, will you help me?"

Sabé swallows and nods. Anything to escape this. "I fold," she says, rising to follow Dormé into the kitchen.

Cordé, the only one with any cards left, leans forward calmly and takes the pot.

* * *

In the kitchen, Dormé attempts to shoo away the cooking droid before giving up, allowing it to remove the hot sheets from the oven for her and dismissing it politely. She hands Sabé a spatula and points her to one of the sheets, and for a few minutes they just transfer the hot cookies onto old-fashioned cooling racks.

Finally, Sabé can't stand the gentle worry in her eyes any longer.

"Just say it," she sighs.

Dormé's response is not what she's expecting.

"She won't wait forever, Sabé."

Sabé's head whips around in shock. "How did you—What do you mean?"

Dormé just _looks_ at her.

"What happened?" she asks. "Sabé, I can't bear seeing you both in so much pain. Did she say something to you...?"

Well, she's not wrong. "In a way," Sabé says vaguely.

"Sabé..."

"I don't want to talk about it."

Dormé crosses her arms, leaning against the counter. "You're not angry with each other," she observes in the tone of someone who knows they're right. "Or at least you weren't. You've looked guilty for days, and she's been stealing glances all night looking at you like you hung the stars." Sabé flushes and looks down; she hadn't noticed anything about the looks except that Padmé kept glancing over and that she didn't dare glance back. "So what happened, if you're not fighting?"

Sabé crosses to the sterilizer to clean her spatula, and lets the machine hum for several minutes longer than necessary.

"She asked me to marry her," she says, finally. "Two days ago."

Dormé's shock is visible, but short-lived. "I... Sabé, that's _wonderful_. You deserve each other. She never struck me as the type to... but that only means she must have put a great deal of thought into it. She's never been impulsive with her heart." Sabé doesn't respond, and Dormé's eyes widen. She covers her mouth faintly, but is kind enough not to actually gasp.

"You turned her down," she realizes.

Sabé cringes. "No," she says. "I told her I needed time to think."

"You..." Dormé steps closer, squeezes Sabé's arm comfortingly. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have assumed, you've just always seemed so happy together...but that must have been a terrible thing to have sprung on you so suddenly. And with everything being so busy, as well."

"We'd...talked about it before, in a way," Sabé says softly. "As a dream. She's all I've ever wanted."

"But...?" Dormé's prompt is gentle, and Sabé looks down. "You're not ready."

Sabé digs her nails into the countertop.

"I can't be what she needs," she whispers finally. "She thinks I can, because she loves me. But I _can't_."

Dormé gives an indulgent sigh. "You seem to have managed for the past seven years," she points out.

"She was the Queen then," Sabé says, barely above a whisper but filled with fear. "I don't know how... I can't _not_ see her that way."

Dormé shakes her head. "I don't believe that," she says firmly, grasping Sabé's shoulder. "I _won't_ believe that. You're her best friend, Sabé, you've always been able to tell the difference between Padmé and Amidala..."

Sabé is shaking her head again already. "No," she protests, "No, it's not like that. They're not different people, not really. At least," she gives a miserable approximation of a laugh. "If they are, I can't see it, I never have. That's what I mean. Padmé _is_ the queen and Amidala has _always_ existed in the girl. I can't separate them. It feels like destroying them both when I try...What?"

Dormé is smiling.

"You don't think that's what she needs?"

Sabé hesitates. When it's worded that way—no, she's thought about this. Was thinking about it all last night, with Padmé sleeping fitfully at her side and pretending to be asleep more often than she really was.

Padmé has given so much of herself, too much of herself, since she was no more than a child. She needs, _deserves_, a rest; she's made it very clear she intends to leave politics. Sabé can only ever be a reminder, if she's not capable of looking at Padmé without seeing her resplendent in crimson and pride, challenging Fate itself for sheer love of her world.

She wants Padmé to have peace, for once. She wants more than anything to be by her side through it all, to draw carefree laughter from her, to watch the sunlight in her hair. But she can never ignore what Padmé is capable of, could never bring herself to do the young woman she loves such a disservice. And if Padmé needs someone to fall in love with her solely as a stranger, a guileless country girl, someone with no duties or attachments or _history_, Sabé cannot be that person and will not lie.

"No one wants to hear 'yes, my lady' all the time from their lovers," she jokes weakly instead. "Let alone their... anything else." She can't say it. If she pairs Padmé as she is here, soft and content, more warm and alive than she has been in years... if Sabé pairs that, even for a moment, with the word _wife_, she is lost.

Dormé cocks her head, considering.

"Well..."

"_Dorm__é!_"

She has to laugh, then, because Dormé is laughing, and for a moment her fears seem irrational.

Dormé eventually settles into a fond smile.

"You've never doubted Her Highness' judgment before," she says. "She's not rash, Sabé. She never says anything on impulse. I think she knows exactly what she needs. She certainly knows what she _wants_."

Sabé's hands are shaking. She clenches them in the sleeves of her borrowed robe.

"I don't want to hurt her," she says, staring determinedly at the cooling unit. "A year from now, five, I don't want her to... regret..."

Dormé clears her throat.

"Have you told _her_ any of this?" she asks.

Sabé blushes and ducks her head.

Dormé hums, somehow managing to look both amused and tender. "Mmm. I'll leave you two alone."

Before Sabé has a chance to fully understand what that means, there's a soft laugh from the exterior kitchen door.

"Thank you, Dormé," Padmé says with a smile, crossing the room to brush her fingers over Sabé's hand before she can flee. Dormé bows slightly and retreats with the trays of cookies. Sabé opens her mouth, but has absolutely no words.

Luckily, Padmé doesn't seem to need them. They know one another too well for that. She just tucks a strand of hair behind Sabé's ear, rests her hands on her first and best decoy's shoulders.

"Sabé," she sighs, and the depth of need and gratitude in that single word shatters any resolve Sabé might have held out. There's still pain in her eyes—and Sabé realizes with a pang that they're faintly red, she's been crying—but it's fading quickly. Her fingers pluck at the fine hair brushing Sabé's temples, and her soft, beautiful smile comes easier than it has in days. "Is _that_ what you were afraid of?"

In the end they miss the announcement of the election results.

* * *

It is not easy—it is the hardest thing Sabé has ever done—to try to explain her doubts and fears and the horrible, looming anxiety with no name when Padmé is standing in front of her with those dark eyes glittering and concerned. But she manages, with the woman she loves running quiet fingers along her temples every few moments to reassure her that she is not, nor has she ever been, alone in this.

"Sabé," she says finally, softly, with a smile hinting in her eyes and at the corners of her mouth. "You don't _have_ to marry me, you know. I suppose I just..." And she drops her gaze, her soft petting pauses. "I wanted us to have the option. I wanted you to know, before everything changes. That I want you. Only you."

"I don't know why," Sabé whispers, that final truth pried from her heart, and it's too much for Padmé's control; she presses close and kisses her jaw, hands moving to Sabé's elbow, the back of her neck, holding her close.

"Because you see me for what I am," she says, "and you love me anyway. Even when there are things that I have to place as more important than you. Even when I ask things of you that I have no right to." She pulls back, swallows with a shaky smile, blinks welling tears out of her eyes. "I always do that, don't I? I'm doing it now. It's selfish of me. I don't want anything from you but _you_, Sabé. Whether or not you ever want to be married."

Sabé shakes her head, because it's not that, not really. She's terrified of the very idea. Just the proposal was like being offered dictatorship of the galaxy—too great an honor, too dangerous, too disastrous if she makes a mistake. But not _wanting_ it? That couldn't be further from the truth.

"Everything's changing at once," she says, and it's the only way she can think to try to explain. She doubts it comes close to being coherent, doubts it even touches on any of what she's thinking.

But it's _Padm__é_. They are in each other's minds and hearts as much as any Jedi in the galaxy; they have always understood one another. Finally the pain leaves Padmé's eyes completely; she winds her fingers in her double's hair, strokes her thumbs gently over Sabé's temples as she looks up at her.

"One thing at a time?" she says gently, and Sabé's gratitude is beyond words—but not, as they discover, beyond a kiss that takes three tries to get right because both of them are smiling too much to do the thing properly.

"Someday," Sabé murmurs finally, in between clutching at Padmé's hair and trailing soft kisses down her jaw. "I want to. I just... can't. Not now. Not yet." Padmé is everything she has ever wanted; but Padmé is also everything she has ever known. She can never be a partner to anyone if she hasn't had time to find out who she is and how they _work_ together without the identity of a handmaiden giving her a template.

Anyone lesser would hear it as a rejection. Padmé just pulls her closer and rests her head on Sabé's shoulder with a glowing smile.

"As long as you need," she whispers. "I'm not going anywhere."

They do, eventually, rejoin the others. Dormé looks hopeful but worried when they finally come out of the kitchen, though the worry vanishes and is replaced by quiet contentment when she takes in their body language, their renewed closeness and loosely intertwined fingers.

Eirtaé notices them as well and greets them with a raised glass, though judging by the languid unsteadiness of her toast Sabé doubts her fellow handmaiden—_former_ handmaiden, now, she realizes as scenes of celebration across Naboo flicker across the holo—is capable of noticing anything more nuanced than their physical presence where they previously had not been.

"To a well-earned retirement," she toasts them.

"No," Dormé says firmly, expertly pulling the bottle away from her and replacing it with a glass of water. It sounds as if they've had this exchange several times tonight. "You've had enough." Eirtaé sighs, but doesn't argue the point.

Cordé's lips twitch watching them, and she raises a champagne flute of something blue, sparkly and significantly stronger than champagne to Padmé as well. "It's official," she says. "Jamillia took Theed and that was really the end of it, but the last province's votes came in fifteen minutes ago. It wasn't quite a landslide, but it wasn't close, either. Eirtaé tried to start a drinking game based on how many times the announcers could say 'provisionally' but Dormé wouldn't let her."

"Good," says Padme, dropping back onto the sofa and pulling Sabé down next to her, and Sabé does not miss the hand on her arm that is, while not quite possessive, very nearly so. Padmé picks up her neglected glass and tops off Sabé's, handing it to her with a smile and a kiss. "Jamillia was a good choice. I liked her."

Sabé agrees. Jamillia will do just fine.

But she'll never be Amidala.

It's over two hours past midnight by now, and Eirtaé isn't the only one who's half-conscious and more than a little delirious. Dormé casts one more doubtful look at her as she stands and brushes cookie crumbs off her nightgown. Cordé takes the hint with a reluctant groan, pushing herself to her feet and prodding Eirtaé out of her chair. Her assistance is accepted with only minimal stumbling. Eirtaé is going to have a truly impressive headache in the morning.

"Goodnight, my lady," Dormé says with a brief, one-armed hug for the former Queen as she heads off to one of the truly ludicrous number of bedrooms.

"Padmé," comes the correction.

And Sabé has a sudden flashback to two young girls, barely more than children, standing at a sunlit window and watching with sick fury as their city was penetrated and their world torn apart; to a silent, held gaze, courage taken in one another as they prepared for the deception that could spell their deaths. The ease with which they had both set aside their identities, pretended for the sake of Naboo to be someone they were not and could never be. Sabé is not a leader. Padmé could never be anything but. She remembers the sad, lancing pain the exchange had carried.

There is no mourning in Padmé's voice now. She is not hiding this time; they no longer need to pretend.

"Just Padmé now," she murmurs as Dormé's footsteps fade down the hall, and there is nothing in her eyes but contentment.

Everything is changing at once. But change, however frightening, is not the same as loss. This is not a time for sadness. It's just a time to face the future as themselves—in a way they have not been since a training session eight years ago, when Padmé Naberrie was just another girl, and Sabé had liked her instantly for her courage, her intelligence, her compassion. In a way, she realizes with a feeling like a misaligned bone snapping back into place, they really haven't changed.

Certainly nothing would stop Padmé from swinging out across the dizzying drop of the cliffs of Theed today any more than it had when they were children. Despite the numerous people who would really like her _not to do that_, ever again.

The light in her eyes, the stubborn bravery, the burning sense of fairness and empathy that Sabé had been drawn to from that very first day when there were no templates, no complications, only two girls realizing how well-matched they were—those have never wavered. And Sabé realizes with quiet consternation that if she ever thought Padmé would _actually_ retire to the country, she was kidding herself. The woman sitting next to her will be spearheading some cause within a year, or Sabé is a Gungan.

It's the end of an era, and Queen Amidala is gone. But Padmé isn't. Sabé twines their fingers together, brings her lady's knuckles to her lips, and Padmé turns to look at her with her eyes shining. They are too tired to speak, but they have never needed words.

One of many things that, even after tonight, will never change.


End file.
